XVI
She stumbles into the alleyways, lungs burning, legs trembling, the fog clutching at her like cold hands. Every turn feels wrong, every shadow too deep, every echo too close. The tapping of the cane is distant — but not distant enough. It has that awful rhythm to it, that playful patience, like he's letting her run because he enjoys the chase.
She bursts out of the alley and into a wider street.
A market street. It looks almost normal at first. It was almost comforting in its mundane normalcy, but nothing in this world stays comforting for long.
Most of the shops are shuttered, their wooden doors barred from the inside. A few have candles still burning in their windows, flickering behind warped glass. The stalls are arranged like a typical wet/dry market: vegetables piled in crates, baskets of herbs, racks of sundries, and—
She stops.
The meat stalls.
Hooks sway gently in the fog, empty now, but the stone beneath them is stained pink. The blood has been washed away with soapy water, leaving swirling patterns that look disturbingly fresh. The smell of iron lingers beneath the sulfur.
Her stomach twists.
What kind of specter eats meat?
She doesn't want the answer. Not here. Not now.
The fog thickens again, rolling between the stalls like a living tide. Somewhere behind her, the cane taps once, twice — closer than before. A hound barks, sharp and eager, the sound bouncing off the market walls.
She ducks behind a vegetable cart, heart hammering, breath shallow. The candles in the nearest shop window flicker violently, as if reacting to something passing by.
She needs shelter.
A sanctuary.
Anything that can hold the dark at bay.
But the priest's warning echoes in her mind:
Not all sanctuaries last past sunset.
Not all sanctuaries welcome the living.
She peers down the market street.
There is a faint glow.
A doorway slightly ajar.
A sign swinging gently above it, letters half‑erased by time.
The cane taps again rhythmically against cobblestones.
She doesn't have the luxury of choosing carefully.
She just needs somewhere — anywhere — to hide before the fog parts and the hat‑man smiles at her from the other end of the street.
A sharp tug behinds her pulls her into a doorway, shutting and barring the shopfront door, a tiny bell jingling as she enters and the door slams.
The voice hits her like a slap. It was melodious and bitingly sharp, incredulous, and alive in a way nothing else she'd experienced in this fog‑drowned world was.
"Oy, girl, are you schtupid, runnin' around at full dark in the fog? You'll get eaten, won't ya."
A hand firm, startlingly cool in white linen fingerless gloves, yanks her sideways into the shadow of a storefront. She stumbles, gasping, and finds herself staring up at a tall redheaded girl of about sixteen or seventeen.
A shock of bright carrot‑orange and ember‑red, wild and vivid as a bonfire. It's the only real color in the entire street — everything else is washed‑out greys and sickly yellows. The girl's hair looks like it's been stolen from a world that still remembers sunlight.
The rest of her… is strange. The rest of her seemed cleaner than most of the shades. She wasn't alive and wasn't as dead as most of the shades she had encountered. She didn't seem as hollow.
Her skin is pale, yes — but not wan. Not starving. Not flickering. She looks solid, anchored, like someone who's been here long enough to adapt but not long enough to fade.
Her eyes are sharp, bright, and very much aware.
She plants a hand on her hip, the other still gripping the protagonist's sleeve.
"Look at ya," she says, aghast. "Pantin' like a rabbit and glowin' like a bloody lantern. You're practically ringin' the dinner bell for every beastie in the fog."
Behind them, the cane taps once — distant, but closer than before.
The redhead's expression tightens.
"Right. No time for gawkin'." She jerks her chin toward the deeper shadows between the stalls. "You wanna live through the night, you stick with me. I know where the safe spots are. I'll take you to my lady. We have a right proper house. Always looking for a little help. We always need more people to do a bit here and there. The lady, she is always on the lookout for energetic people like yours truly." She gestures to herself with a half wave of her hand.
She releases my sleeve only to grab my wrist instead with a firm decisive grip. She seemed firmer, determined to have me follow. "Alright come with me, we'll set you to rights." She stomps towards the back of the shop, through the back door and through another series of doors and hallways, quickly pulling her through side streets.
"And don't you dare wander off. You're too shiny by half. The hat‑man'll sniff you out like a fox on a hen."
I had nowhere to go. This young woman seemed nice. She offered me safety. I took it gratefully. I set my suspicious nature aside for a moment. She didn't seem like a spirit absorbing monster. I knew for sure that hat man was one. This redhead was definitely the lesser evil.
Another bark echoes down the market street.
The girl's grip tightens.
"Quickly, Move. Make haste, we're almost there."